


You're Not Leaving Me Alone

by meridian_rose (meridianrose)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Birthday Party, Blood Loss, Canon - Book & TV Combination, Friendship, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt Crowley, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Mild Gore, My last Whumptober for 2019, Pre-Relationship, Whump, Whumptober, Whumptober 2019, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 16:09:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21182234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meridianrose/pseuds/meridian_rose
Summary: At Warlock's birthday party Aziraphale's magic tricks inadvertently lead to Warlock being in possession of a loaded gun. The good news is no human gets hurt. The bad news is that Crowley ends up on the verge of discorporation. Aziraphale is not willing to let that happen.





	You're Not Leaving Me Alone

**Author's Note:**

> I'm re-reading the book after many years and loving it all over again. In the book the party goes slightly differently, with a near mishap when Warlock gets hold of a bodyguard's gun and when it goes off Aziraphale makes it squirt water at the last minute, causing Crowley to get soaked rather than shot. This is an AU of that moment but the characters are probably more like the show; also I dialled down the gun's power since it was "capable of blowing a man away at thirty paces, and leaving nothing more than a red mist, a ghastly mess" and I needed Crowley hurt not evaporated!

Warlock's birthday party was turning into a disaster. Aziraphale's magic tricks were not going down well, a matter not helped because he needed a handkerchief for the 'making a live dove appear' trick and the bodyguard he'd asked insisted he didn't have one.

"Take a look, please…" Aziraphale miracled up a handkerchief and the surprised bodyguard found himself pulling out a lace edged silk square. The lace of which caught on his gun and sent it flying off into a bowl of jelly. For the first time the children applauded.

Warlock dashed across the room and grabbed the gun. "Hands up!" he shouted. Other security guards reached for their own weapons instinctively, others began to move toward Warlock or toward their own charges to keep them safe. A number of the other children did not care about their safety but rather wanted their own guns.

Crowley was staring out of the window looking for the hellhound, either ignoring or blissfully unaware of the chaos.

One especially aggravated guest threw their bowl of jelly at Warlock, who, taken by surprise, pulled the trigger. 

The gun went off before Aziraphale could react and Crowley turned, frowning.

"What was that?" Crowley asked, before he glanced down and saw the blood blossoming on his white shirt.

The chaos turned into a full blown panic with children screaming and bodyguards trying to shepherd them away, parents yelling as they headed toward the tent.

Aziraphale moved toward Crowley, who'd sank to his knees.

"Hold on," Aziraphale called. The wound was a through and through, had hit an artery judging from the amount of blood. He reached Crowley as the demon keeled over. Kneeling down, Aziraphale pulled Crowley close, so his head lay on Aziraphale's legs.

"The hellhound's not here," Crowley managed to say. His breathing was rapid, his face pale. His shirt was more red than white.

"Don't worry about that now. I need to fix this wound."

"Too late. I'm cold. I can't feel my legs. My hands are getting numb too. I know what discorporating feels like."

Aziraphale shook his head. "Don't say that."

"I'll come back," Crowley said with a weak smile.

He would, but discorporation was inconvenient at best. Aziraphale knew, though Crowley had never spoken of it in detail, that getting sent back to Hell involved bureaucracy (was that theirs, with the endless forms, or his side, to try and provide order?) and punishment. It would take time they didn't have, with the Antichrist already here on earth and already trying to kill people* and honestly Aziraphale was more shocked than he'd expected at seeing Crowley in such a state.  
(*accidentally nearly discorporating a demon wasn't quite the same but Aziraphale thought it ought to count for something.)

Healing Crowley would spare him Hell, or at least a visit to Hell where he'd suffer for losing his body even though it was not his fault.

"I have to try," Aziraphale said.

Crowley tried to shake his head and was not successful. "You'll get us in trouble, healing a demon."

He was right; it could cause problems for Crowley, it could cause problems for Aziraphale, and it could definitely bring attention to their Arrangement.

And Aziraphale didn't care about any of that right now.

"You are not leaving me to deal with the Antichrist you delivered to earth," he said briskly.

"Not my fault," Crowley murmured, eyes closing.

Aziraphale placed one hand on Crowley's cheek, cool to the touch. His lips were turning blue and Aziraphale wondered if he was too late.

Pushing the thought aside he placed his other hand over the exit wound in Crowley's chest.

The noise of the chaos around them faded. There was nothing but light and calmness for a long moment.

Reality invaded the second Aziraphale lifted his hand from Crowley's chest, scowling at the blood. Crowley coughed, moaned at the jolt of pain it caused, and opened his eyes.

"There we are," Aziraphale said brightly, surprised, pleased, and somewhat terrified by what he'd done.

"Still hurts," Crowley complained. It took him two attempts to lift his benumbed right hand and flex the fingers.

"Well you were very close to discorporating," Aziraphale said, giving him a gentle pat on the cheek before removing his hand. "It will take a moment for you to fully heal."

Aziraphale reached into his pocket with his clean hand and pulled out the handkerchief he did have on his person. Unfortunately it was a magician's handkerchief and the more he pulled, the more colourful squares of material came out of his pocket. He scrubbed at his hand and bundled up the whole annoying mess, tossing it aside before snapping it out of existence. It wouldn't do to leave demon blood lying around.

Speaking of such things, no doubt the police had been summoned and an ambulance, and they absolutely did not want to be here when the authorities arrived.

"Can you stand?" Aziraphale asked.

Crowley, rubbing at his left hand with his right to restore circulation, grimaced. "You'll have to help me. My feet are still numb."

Aziraphale thought about the gauntlet they'd have to run through the crowd of terrified children and adults and all the miracling he'd have to do to make them let him and a blood soaked Crowley past and forget they'd ever seen them.

"Hold still a moment," Aziraphale said and wrapped his arms around Crowley. In for a penny, in for a pound. He'd used one big miracle today, why not two?

Next thing Crowley knew they were back at Aziraphale's bookstore, Aziraphale kneeling on one of the ancient rugs, Crowley still lying pretty much in his lap. Aziraphale released his hold and Crowley was able to sit up. With Aziraphale helping him, he managed to stagger to the nearest seat and collapse into it.

"I'll make us some tea," Aziraphale said.

"Get me a brandy?" Crowley flexed his toes, fighting through a nasty case of pins and needles.

From the kitchen came the sound of a kettle boiling, an, "Oh dear" and then a cooing sound, before the back door opened and shut.

By the time Aziraphale returned with a tea tray loaded with tea cups, milk, sugar basin, teapot and two shot glasses of brandy, Crowley was feeling much better and had used his demonic powers to replace his shirt with a clean black one.

"I'll have to go back for the Bentley," Crowley said, after he'd drunk the brandy.

"We'll have to go back and make sure we cover our tracks," Aziraphale said, though he was hoping that any wild stories about people getting shot would be put down to hysteria. "But I think we have to consider the possibility that we, er, got the wrong child."

Eleven years wasted. The Antichrist about to gain his powers. Armageddon just around the corner.

Crowley let out a long sigh. "I don't see how, but I know where we can start."

Aziraphale did not blame Crowley, at least out loud, but his expression spoke volumes. Nonetheless, this disaster could be, had to be averted. And it would only be accomplished if they worked together.

That was the only reason Aziraphale dared to admit, even to himself, for risking healing Crowley. The only explanation for the heart stopping, mind-numbing fear he'd felt on seeing Crowley's blood soaked shirt.

If he had to explain to Heaven why he'd saved Crowley it would be something about only Crowley knowing where the Antichrist was (partly true) and Aziraphale wanting to keep an eye on the boy (true) to ensure he got begin Armageddon (utterly false).

Much later he'd think more about his motivations, but by then, things had changed enough that he was no longer afraid of admitting to feeling affection for a demon.

**Author's Note:**

> For the Whumptober prompt 29 "numb"


End file.
